I wonder where memories go when I can no longer call them by name.
I can’t remember the smell of my dad’s cologne mixed with oil after a long day at work.
I can’t remember his voice. Even less can I remember his laugh.
Do memories melt away like the snow on the first warm day of spring?
Slowly and then all at once, gone when the grass starts to grow as though the snow was never there.
Perhaps they are hidden somewhere inside my brain.
A torn page out of a book tucked in a locked library where I’ve long lost the key.
Do memories turn to stardust sprinkled in dreams of people I’ve never met?
Could I find them and ask them to remember for me?
Pictures tell stories that no longer belong to me as stories from books are not mine, flat with no laughter or warmth of touch.
So I’ll bottle up the memories I have and freeze them in time.
I’ll write them in a book to keep them close.
I’ll visit them in dreams, calling them by name, in hopes they’ll never drift away.
